The swelling in his limbs had also subsided. Every home is a little recess, a niche, out of the world of business and competition, in which women and the future shelter. ‘You don’t favour her, bar the black hair. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. There he sat, cheerfully friendly in his sex’s freedom—the man she loved, the one man she cared should unlock the way to the wide world for her imprisoned feminine possibilities, and he seemed regardless that she stifled under his eyes; he made a jest of all this passionate insurgence of the souls of women against the fate of their conditions. "I'll go to her directly," said Wood, bustling towards the door. ‘So it was.
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